Chapter 2: Part 1
1180 Words
Zara
“Mrs Jones, close the blinds- my head is killing me.”
The light continues, striking, even with my eyes closed.
“Mrs Jones.” I groan hand over eyes.
When the pressure doesn’t stop, and I get no reply back I open them to see if she is still in the room.
No. Instead its James, standing at the foot of my bed.
“What’s your problem so early in the morning?” I question rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I need a shower, breakfast, a pain pill, and a massage.
Where the hell was Mrs Jones?
“My problem is you Zara. What the f**k was last night? Getting drunk like a frat boy in public, berating staff members. Overall acting like a brat.” He spits out, arms folded.
A bunch of newspaper and magazines are thrown onto the bed as if to emphasise his little tantrum. I only glance at the titles, taking them in.
Anniversary from Hell
Bratty Starlight Zara Kennedy Makes a Memorable Evening
Drunk and Disorderly
Trashy Night for The Kennedys
Mrs Kennedys’ Over the Shoulder Exposure
” Guess you should have gotten me that drink then, huh?” I mutter, moving them off the bed. Slowly, I got up, closing the curtain he had just opened.
“Is this a joke to you Zara?” he questioned, voice rising.
“Jokes are funny, James. Nothing about us is the nearest to amusing. I’ll fix the tabloids, now get out.” I muttered going to my bathroom.
The first thing on the agenda was to wash off last night’s makeup. I’d definitely need a facial too. Slowly as if fixing the wounds on my heart, I got ready for the day.
By the time I got to the living areas, James was gone, house quiet with only calm movement in the kitchen. Mrs Jones was doing dishes, swaying side to side. “Good morning, Mrs Jones.” I sing while opening the fridge.
With a slight jolt and hand to the heart, she returns my smile, “Good morning Mrs Kennedy, how are you this morning?” She questions moving to set the table.
“Not that great. I quite prefer your morning call over James.” I spoke, bringing the pitcher of apple juice to the table.
“Your husband, you mean?” she mused.
“Don’t remind me.”
This morning song and dance was perfected by us through repetition.
I would bring in the drinks and condiments for breakfast.
Mrs Jones would set the table.
I would start the microwave heating up whatever delicacy she had prepared, then take my seat.
When it dinged, she would bring it to me.
“I need a massage and facial, please set it up for me,” I asked with a small smile.
“Already done, ma’am. They are expecting you at 10am.” She winked back, bringing the tray of food.
Today it was chicken Cesare salad stuffed in some bread and some sausages and bacon. The usual side of fresh fruit to finish it off. I eat in silence looking over my socials, reading the headlines, which admittedly didn’t look good. The last thing I need is a visit from dad.
I drop off the dishes in the now-empty kitchen and head for James’ room.
Unfortunately, in order to fix the mess I created yesterday, I would need his presence. I didn’t knock, just let the door open softly. Luckily he was still here, working on his tie. He spared a short glance and continued working on his tie.
“I need you to come to the country club at 11:00 with a bouquet and an anniversary gift of some sort, preferably diamonds. You will be there for about 2 hours after, to have brunch after a massage. Try to be present.” I didn’t give him a moment to reply or question me, moving to the gym, closing his door gently.
The gym had been my addition to his home after multiple location leaks in my previous gyms. After a quick workout and shower, I was on the drive to the country club for my massage and to get some work done.
I figure I should get some tension released before I do layoffs. Driving in LA is not for the weak, but I enjoyed the time alone. I could listen to whatever I wanted, a small sense of privacy, that I took gladly with both hands.
The sounds of laughter in the distance, mumbled chatter and golf carts filled my ears. Instead of driving towards the valet, I moved to the staff parking. I had majority shares here and had been acting managing director since I had been forced to come to LA a week ago.
The walk to the massage studio was brief, greeting the few guests I could recognise. Most of the employees tended to avoid me. The country club was a meeting ground of the most influential people in the city. Here, they would freely be bigots in the company of the 1 percent. Every once in a while, a politician, friend or enemy of father would grace us with their presence.
Once in the change room, I strip, putting the white towel around my body. It was still relatively empty, with the usual start of being busy around noon. Since the masseuse hadn’t arrived, I played some music softly.
-
“Good morning-” A bustling of products rose me from my position on the massage table.
The masseuse had tripped over her own feet into the products. This wasn’t Anna, but rather a younger girl with a ponytail so tight I’m sure her hairline is bound to recede as a result.
“When you’re done cleaning up. Get Anna.” I muttered, settling back into the table.
“Yes ma’am,” the little thing whispered from my side.
The soft thud of the door lets me know she’s done.
About three songs later, the soft opening and closing of a door lets me know Anna has arrived.
“Full body or just back, Mrs Kennedy?” she questions gently, from my side.
“Full body.” I mutter, eyes closed.
Softly in the background, my jazz music plays, lulling me to sleep, along with Anna’s heavenly hands. It takes all the strength I have to keep awake. Eucalyptus fills the air making it that much harder. At first, Anna starts on my back.
The towel I am wearing is shifted lower, leaving it bare. This area normally involves more force than the rest of my body. This is where we normally spend the most time. The lower she gets on my back the less intensity is needed.
A knock on the door wakes me from almost slumber.
“You can’t be here-”
“Please leave before I call security,” Anna struggles.
“It’s okay Anna, please leave us for a bit.” “Make sure no one comes in.” I smile, slowly getting up, covering myself with the towel.
- Writer
